


The Curse of Natalis

by afrikate



Series: The Curse of Natalis [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Torture, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:52:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1943, during a firefight turned ugly in the North African desert, Bucky Barnes is bitten by werewolf. After capturing Barnes, Dr. Arnim Zola becomes intrigued with the possibilities werewolves present to Hydra. Unfortunately, one member of Hydra fails to read the instruction manual.</p><p>Set in the MCU and the Mercy Thompson novels by Patricia Briggs. Readers do not need to be familiar with the books in order to enjoy this story.</p><p>This is part one of a five-part series. Part 2 is already up, part 3 is in beta, and parts 4-5 are being worked on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of Natalis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Steve/Bucky Big Bang 2016.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my wonderful, amazing, fantastic beta, [k8/paintedmaypole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedmaypole/pseuds/k8). She pushed me to be a better writer, told me when I was overthinking things, and made me laugh really, really hard. Thanks so much, k8!
> 
> I have art! Thanks to my wonderful Stucky BB artist, [winterstudmuffinbarnes](http://winterstudmuffinbarnes.tumblr.com) who drew [fantastic art of Bucky in wolf form](http://winterstudmuffinbarnes.tumblr.com/post/150015869167/i-drew-werewolf-bucky-tearing-out-his-metal-arm). Art at the end of the fic as well because it's a bit spoilery.
> 
>  

Washington, DC, May 13, 1968 

Zola hangs up the phone with a click, his movements precise and controlled.

“Problem, Doctor?” Pierce asks. He’s lounging on the couch, clearly irritated with the interruption. Zola finds that Pierce prefers to be the center of attention, always, which has been an interesting challenge.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Zola walks back to his chair. “I regret to inform you that Project Kobold has not come to fruition. At the last stage there was a… critical error.” He closes his eyes, then opens them and says, “The Asset was lost.”

Pierce sits up, puts his glass down on the glass tabletop in front of him with click. His voice is hard when he speaks. “We were assured that mission would be a success. How could those morons have failed?”

Zola nods, sits, and grabs the decanter with a none-too-steady hand.He splashes whiskey into both their glasses. “It was a ridiculous decision. I have provided reams of instruction on how best to use the Asset. Such an asinine, preventable mistake.”

“Preventable?” Pierce reaches down to take another drink. “Really?”

Zola watches him.  Undoubtedly, Pierce is working to determine how the situation can be turned to his advantage. He is ruthless in his ability to convert other’s failure into his own success.

“Really?” Pierce repeats himself.

Zola starts, then nods. “Yes, it was preventable. Last night was the full moon-- an easy thing to predict and to avoid.” He shakes his head. “In my last update of the manual, I clearly laid out the dates when the Asset should not be activated.” He looks up, at Pierce. “You are right, my friend. These people are idiots, losing such an excellent subject on such a vital mission.”

Zola stares into the middle distance, remembering the last time he had seen the Asset, the quick light of recognition in its eyes, before the chair did its work. Always so nice to be remembered.

Pierce turns his gaze to the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it around before taking another sip. “What does the moon have to do with anything, Doctor?”

Pierce’s voice pulls Zola from his ruminations.He answers, absently, “The Asset is a werewolf, Pierce. They cannot resist shifting at the full moon.”

Suddenly, Pierce is standing over him, looking down angrily. Zola blinks up, surprised.

“A werewolf,” Pierce sounds furious.

“Yes.” Zola says.

“You are trying to tell me that,” Pierce’s voice is scornful, “werewolves exist.”

“Ah,” Zola says, understanding now. “I forget, you Americans have so little knowledge of the supernatural world.” He shakes his head, how careless. “Many of the fairy stories do exist, I assure you. Werewolves-- men who turn into giant wolf creatures-- they are quite real.”

Pierce steps back, stunned. “And you’re saying that _the Asset_ was such a creature.”

“Yes, that is what I am saying.”

“I never saw evidence of it!”

Of course, thinks Zola. He summons up a small smile. “It was a closely guarded secret, Alexander,” he says gently. “Almost no one was aware, beyond myself and a few technicians. I wanted to be sure we would not be compromised.”

Pierce stalks back to his glass, takes a hefty drink. “What else is real? Ghosts, witches?”

Zola sighs, relaxes. “Witches, ghosts, fae. Some even say vampires, though I am less certain of those.”

Pierce asked, “How did you decide to use a werewolf for the Asset?”

Zola smiles again and leans forward. It’s always nice to talk about his work. “In the war, I found that the supernatural world presents many exciting opportunities. The Asset was one, and recently, I have been considering some new experiments, with different capabilities. ”

Pierce’s expression grows curious, intent. He picks up the decanter and pours them both a drink, gesturing for Zola to go on.

 

* * *

 

Fort Benning, Georgia, February 19, 1943 

Bucky is itchy. He’s itchy and irritable and about to jump out of his own skin, counting down the days ‘til they ship him back north to New York. He’s due a leave before they send him back to some fucking hellhole or other, and he’s trying to grit his teeth and keep his head down, but if these fucking yahoos from the Georgia platoon don’t shut. The fuck. Up--

The most irritating one, the one who put Bucky’s back up the first time they met and hasn’t stopped yet, sidles over and all but elbows Bucky in the side. “Full moon tomorrow, right?”

Bucky stares at him. “The fuck does that mean, McCairn?”

The little fucker has curly red hair, too long despite regs, and his pale blue eyes get bigger with surprise. “Barnes, you’re kidding, right?”

Bucky just stares him down, forces McCairn to look away. Doing this feels good, makes Bucky feel powerful, and he shakes his head to clear it. “Sorry, McCairn. Just. Feeling itchy.”

McCairn looks at him, really looks, and it pisses Bucky off again. He’s trying to keep his temper, but-- “Come with me,” McCairn says suddenly.

He wants to growl more at that. McCairn’s not a fucking officer and Bucky officially outranks him. The kid must see some of this in Bucky’s face though.

“Please, Barnes,” he says. “This is important.”

Bucky’s got good instincts, everyone says so, and this is pinging him. He waits a couple seconds longer, then says, “Yeah, ok,” and follows McCairn back toward the rows of tents.

***

“Major Burke, sir,” says McCairn.

The major finishes writing something before he looks up, classic dick officer move. Bucky stands at attention anyway; the way he feels right now, an ass-chewing from an officer’s just going to lead him to the MPs.

“Private McCairn and… Corporal Barnes.” The major returned their salute. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Bucky’s tempted to tell him--he doesn’t know what, something so he can get out of there--when McCairn says, “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

Major Burke’s eyebrows go up, but he waves a hand. “Granted.”

“Sir, Barnes here, he’s new. He don’t know what he is and tomorrow’s the full moon--”

McCairn’s voice is getting higher and Bucky is getting more agitated. What the fuck is that “he don’t know what he is?” Bucky wants to snap at McCairn again, but the Major is staring with interest now, which in Bucky’s experience is never a good thing.

“New?” says Major Burke.

“Yes, sir.”

“Corporal Barnes, what’s your unit?”

“I was with the 15th, before I got evac’d out, sir.”

Burke asks, “Operation Torch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were attacked?”

Bucky looks Burke right in the eye and says, in the blandest voice possible, “I’m in the army, sir.”

That gets him a head shake and a sharp look from Burke. “Why were you evacuated, Corporal? We haven’t seen many back from Africa yet and you look pretty healthy.”

Oh. Bucky wants to hunch in on himself.It’s hard to keep his arms at his side. He’s spent a lot of the last couple weeks avoiding thinking about this.

“My unit was sent to scout out an Italian position. They twigged we were there and started shooting. They got most of the unit, and then,” God, this sounds nuts and he knows it, “They had this big fucking dog, sir.”

Bucky’s been staring over Burke’s shoulder, but now he glances at Burke’s face. “Sorry, sir. The dog was huge and vicious as hell, just attacked like it wanted to rip us to pieces. Between the dog and the bullets, only three of us managed to get away. Dog mangled my leg all to hell. Doc thought he’d have to amputate, but then he said I was improving, sent me here.”

The major has a look of sympathy on his face, but it doesn’t stop him from asking more questions. “And the others who got away?”

“Nicholls wasn’t hurt as bad, so they kept him there to recover. No one else made it.” Nearly every night, Bucky dreams of the sounds the dog made, panting as it’s teeth ripped through cloth and flesh.

The major looks at McCairn, then nods at Bucky. “Well, Corporal, let me congratulate you on your luck--you survived a werewolf attack. Not many do.”

“Say, what?” It comes out sharper than Bucky means it.

“A werewolf,” Burke says, walking over to his desk. “They’re quite real, I promise you,”

Bucky starts wondering if he’s gone nuts or just everyone else has. This is bugfuck crazy.

“McCairn’s going to take you with him to our local pack tonight-- I’ll write you a 48-hour pass. You’re going to need to be around them during the full moon.”

Bucky stares as Burke writes out a pass and hands it to him.

“McCairn, I’m releasing him to your custody. You’re both due back by 1800 on the 21st.” Burke nods, then turns away. “Dismissed.”

The salute Bucky manages is shaky at best. McCairn drags Bucky out of the tent before he regains his senses enough to start arguing.

 

* * *

 

Ochillee Creek, Georgia, February 19, 1943 

Bucky gets a crash course in the rules during the ride to the pack’s house. A friend of McCairn’s comes along and he makes Bucky feel just as itchy and annoyed as McCairn does.

“You can’t tell anyone,” McCairn starts.

“Anyone! Not even your best girl! Not even your mother!” adds McCairn’s overly excitable pal. Bucky has no idea what the guy’s name is.

“All right,” Bucky says. “It’s not like they would believe me.”

“But you can’t even try to make them. Not until you get married. Maybe not even then!” McCairn’s pal is waving his hands all over the place. Bucky is tempted to snap.

McCairn, thankfully, moves them on to other, more imminently useful pieces of advice. “Andrey, he’s the Alpha. You can’t look him in the eye. It’s a challenge, and he’ll put you in your place.”

“In your place!” crows the friend.

Bucky feels his anger rising, ready to spill over. McCairn must feel it too, because he starts talking about how Bucky needs to control the wolf, that it’s really important… Bucky hears McCairn, but he stops listening. He could probably even repeat some of it back to McCairn if he asked, but Bucky’s brain is too busy running in circles around this whole werewolf question to retain much.

He’s read some of the Irish stories. Once, for a whole summer after Steve had read the _Taín Bo Cuilange_ , they’d acted out parts of the story about the great cattle raid, but Bucky doesn’t remember much of that now. All his life, he remembers hearing stories about brownies, and green men, and the Unseelie stealing children. When it wasn’t his grandmother telling them, it was one of a dozen women either fresh off the boat or old enough to remember the Old Country. However, Bucky can’t remember a single story where people turned into wolves. Then again, he also can’t remember a single story where interacting with the Fair Folk ever ended up in a human’s favor.

It takes two hours to get from Benning to the middle of fucking nowhere backwoods Georgia. They end up somewhere with rolling hills and a big wooden house. When they get out of the car, Bucky can smell animals and hear a bunch of people. In fact, he can hear multiple conversations going on between what’s got to be six or seven people, none of whom he can see. The itchy feeling under his skin intensifies, and Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin when McCairn slams the door on his friend’s Ford.

The yard they’ve pulled up into is neat. There are blue flowers growing up a trellis on the right front of the house, a flower bed out front with the start of little yellow buds poking out. Steve’s last letter said Brooklyn had gotten another dumping of snow last week; here it could be early April, not mid-February.

A woman wearing a blue dress, flowered apron over the front of it, steps out onto the porch. “Jed McCairn, we didn’t expect you for another day. Come up here and introduce your friend.”

“Aunt Alice,” McCairn’s face lights up and he runs over to give her a hug. “You know I couldn’t stay away from your cooking!”

She’s little. McCairn’s a head taller than her and Bucky thinks McCairn isn’t much bigger than Steve. “You’re a big flatterer, Jed, but I made biscuits anyway. You’re too skinny, army ain’t feeding you properly.”

“Army food’s not really food, Aunt Alice.” McCairn’s telling her, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter how much you eat, ain’t never gonna taste good.”

Bucky wants to tell him to be grateful for what he’s got now. Once McCairn gets overseas, it’s only going to get worse.

“Now, who’s this young man? You forget your manners in all that learning to salute?”

Alice is  looking Bucky up and down, and he musters up a smile, makes himself remember how to be charming.“Hello, ma’am,” he winks. “I’m Corporal James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.”

She laughs. “And what do the girls call you? Trouble with a capital T? Too bad you’re a Yankee, and the girls down here know better.”

Bucky grins. “The don’t usually call me trouble to my face, ma’am.”

“I bet they call you that and plenty more behind your back,” she says with a smile. “I’m Mrs. Frazier.” She steps back towards the open door. “Come on in, my husband will want to meet you. He’s out dealing with one of the horses, you can wait in his office.”

Mrs. Frazier turns back to McCairn, “Jed, go change and then go out and help the boys with the plowing. You stop by the kitchen on your way out and we’ll get you squared away.”

McCairn nods and heads into the house without a second glance at Bucky. Picking up his small rucksack, Bucky heads up the porch stairs. There’s a swing on the porch and the smell of new wood, like someone’s been replacing shingles. He follows Mrs. Frazier through the door, which opens onto a wide room, with chairs lining the wall.

“Well now, Bucky,” Mrs. Frazier says, turning right, leading him down a hallway full of open doors. “Like I said, my husband will be in as soon as he can.” She steps into the last room at the end of the hallway, and waves him in. “Take a seat, you hungry?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, just continues, “I’ll send Ella in with something for you to eat, Army food ain’t worth the name. Just wait here.”

The office she takes Bucky to is small, but light wood paneling and windows on two walls mean it’s bright. There’s a big heavy wooden desk and captain’s chair behind it, papers in neat piles on the top. Two chairs sit in front of the desk, their backs to the door. Mrs. Frazier clearly meant for Bucky to take a seat in one, but between the itch under his skin and the instinct not to put a door at his back, he can’t do it. Instead, he heads to the bookcase on one wall and looks over the titles. Most of the books seem to be ledgers, looks like going back at least forty years. There’s a Bible, too, spine well-worn. But on the lower shelves are printed spines, some cracked with age, and some cheap dimestore paperbacks. It’s mostly Westerns, and Bucky’s tastes run more to robots and Martians, but he pulls out one or two.

He’s halfway through the first of the novels-- it’s not too bad, though he thinks Sister Mary Joseph would have had some things to say about the purple prose-- when he hears quick, heavy footsteps. He has enough time to turn, but not enough to put the book back, when the door’s shoved open.

The man who comes in is young, doesn’t look much older than Bucky, with fair hair and freckles. He’s tall, muscular, and looks like he’d be tough in a fight, like Bucky’d have to use all those tricks the army taught him in hand-to-hand and a lifetime of dirty fighting to put him down. He’s not sure he could do it.

Bucky wonders when he started looking at men as threats first, rather than people. Probably after his umpteenth fight on account of Steve.

“James Barnes?” the man booms.

The “yes, sir” is automatic now, as is coming to attention. He looks up to meet the man’s eyes and can’t manage it for more than a second before he’s glancing away. He uses his trick with priests and officers, fixes his eyes on the man’s right ear.

The big man’s watching him carefully. “I’m Andrey Frazier, Alpha of the Ochillee Creek Pack.”

Bucky can tell Frazier’s angry. It’s simmering right beneath the surface and some instinct’s telling him to look down, but Bucky stubbornly keeps his eyes straight. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he says, like it’s Sunday after church and not like the air’s closing in and starting to choke him, which is what it feels like.

He’s starting to have trouble breathing when there’s a thump at the door. They both turn and look down at Mrs. Frazier, who’s holding a tray that smells amazing. Mr. Frazier takes it from her, casual and smooth, even though he has to bend down nearly in half to do it. He’s setting it on the desk and Bucky’s catching his breath, when Mrs. Frazier smacks her husband a good one on his arm.

“Andrey, you can be mad all you want at me, but this boy’s been polite as anything,” she says. “I been an Alpha’s wife long enough to know when someone’s going to be a problem. Bucky here just needs some decent food, right boy?”

He’s startled into looking at her, catches the warning in her eye. “Yes, ma’am.”

Andrey’s looking at his wife with a frown and she just rolls her eyes at him. (And it’s weird, because Mrs. Frazier’s got to be nearing 50, her face lined and a stoop starting, while Frazier doesn’t look more than 30 at the outside.) Then the man rolls his shoulders, steps back, and Bucky thinks the air’s about eight times more breathable.

“You take too many risks,” Frazier says to her. He’s still frowning, but his face, his whole demeanor, has lightened.

She laughs and smacks him again. “You wouldn’t have been enjoying my cooking for the last 26 years if I didn’t.”

Frazier catches her arm and pulls her close for a kiss. Bucky looks away and down at the tray, which seems to have food for a half dozen men-- roast chicken sandwiches and mashed sweet potatoes, greens, sausages, some kind of squash. His stomach rumbles and both the Fraziers laugh, his deep and rough, hers warm and higher pitched.

“Guess you were right,” Frazier says.

“Like I always am,” she retorts, smug and ignoring his eyeroll. “I’ll leave you to it. Bucky, if you’re still hungry when you’re done, there’s more where that came from.” She laughs again at his expression, then leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Frazier gestures to Bucky to have a seat. “Tuck in, boy. She’s right, you look half-starved. Too much healing on army rations.”

The food might actually taste better than it smells. Bucky makes his way steadily through his first plate, while Frazier sits across the desk from Bucky and works on his own.

“I remember when I was in the army-- I was hungry all the time.” Frazier shakes his head. “I’ll talk to Burke about getting you boys more in the mess-- Jed was looking a little thin, too, but he can probably stand it a bit better.”

Bucky glances up. “Why’s that, sir?”

“Werewolves need more food than the average human,” Frazier says. “We burn more fuel faster, even when we’re in human form. It’s worse around the full moon, and worst of all when we’re injured--the quick healing comes at a price.” He shakes his head, “When there’s not enough food, we get touchy, short-tempered. We’re stronger and faster than the average human--it’s too easy to get angry, get in a fight, do more, and more permanent, damage than you mean to.”

“Oh.” Bucky sits back, feeling a bit queasy. A flash of Erickson’s face as that dog ripped at him comes to mind and he has to look down at the floor for a minute.

“Bucky,” Frazier says. “That really what you go by?”

“Yeah. Sir.”

“Ok, then, Bucky. Tell me what happened.”

He tells Frazier what he told Burke about the firefight and that big fucking dog. He manages to get through it without losing the food he just ate, but only just.

Frazier’s nodding. “All right. Leg okay now?”

“Yeah, as good as new.”

“How else you feeling?” Frazier asks

Bucky sighs. “Just. Itchy. On edge.” He takes a breath, remembering how close he’d been to swinging at McCairn earlier. “I was ready to bite McCairn’s head off for no reason.”

“With Burke?” Frazier asks, looking interested.

Bucky looks up. “He’s an officer, sir.”

Frazier laughs. “I was a Captain, Bucky, but I think I know what you mean. Less of an urge to snap at him?”

Bucky nods. “He’s no worse than the other officers, better than a few.” He remembers the lieutenant that ordered their charge in Africa. “Maybe a lot better than some.”

“All right. Well, I’ll be straight with you, Barnes,” says Frazier, looking serious. “You’re definitely a werewolf, I can smell it. You’ll be Changing with the rest of us tomorrow night.”

Bucky looks up at him, then down to his lap. He digs his hands into his thighs and ignoring the urge to take a swing.

“Normally, you’d resign your commission-- Burke’d get you a discharge-- and you’d join the pack for at least a year.”

Bucky winces. The food is great, maybe better than his Ma’s, but he’s not sure he can spend a year down here.

Frazier continues, “In that time, we’d teach you to control the wolf, make sure you could shift both ways without trouble, be sure you weren’t a danger to society, or no more dangerous than we ever get.” He shakes his head. “But there’s a war on, so we aren’t going to have that kind of time.”

Bucky takes a breath, runs his fingers through his hair. Tries not to hear the screams of dying men.

“I haven’t talked to Burke directly, but I’m guessing we’ve got three months, maybe four, to get you in fighting shape, as it were, before we run out of time. And, unfortunately, we can’t have wolves that can’t control themselves, even in the Army. Too much danger for the rest of the troops. So, you’ve got about three or four months to learn control.”

“And if I don’t, sir?” Bucky’s not stupid and he hears the unspoken, but he wants to be absolutely clear on this.

Frazier looks him straight in the eye. “Then, Barnes, I’m sorry to say we’ll have to kill you, for the good of society.”

Bucky nods. There it is. “All right, then. Tell me what I need to know to stay alive.”

 

* * *

 

Georgia, February, June 1943 

The army keeps him at Fort Benning four months and five full moons, all told. Someone got the bright idea to train him up for a sniper-- he’s betting it was Burke. They give him some other courses too-- wilderness survival, stuff like that. Even have him jump out of an airplane, once, and that was more fucking terrifying than being under fire for six straight days in the desert. Not worse than that last attack, though. Then again, he’s not sure what would be. He’s depressingly sure he’s going to find out.

Werewolf lessons appear to boil down to ‘control yourself, or else.’ There’s plenty more words, but that’s what Bucky takes away. The bad temper’s frustrating, the sense of smell is nauseating, and he can barely manage the sensitive hearing. He’s learning how to compensate for the extra strength and speed. The worst, though, is the extra voice, extra _person_ in his head, with opinions and preferences all its own.

He and the wolf… he’s not sure how to describe it. Come to an agreement, maybe? Have a kind of armed neutrality?

The thing is, he doesn’t trust the wolf. He’s been told he has to learn to control it, learn to subjugate its will to his own-- otherwise they’re both too dangerous to live. He resents this-- the army gives him orders all the time, but he enlisted, ultimately, he chose it. This feels like-- well, if he was inclined that way, he’d think this is the wrath of a vengeful god, but he gave up on God in any meaningful sense a while ago. This is more like he’s the butt of some cosmic joke. All those tall tales and penny novels he’s read, and it turns out he could be in one.

For a little while, he tries to name it, but nothing ever takes, and each time he tries he feels a sense of disgust, separate from his own. It’s been long enough now that Bucky knows he needs to come to terms with this, but when he lets himself stop and think about it, he’s terrified. One wrong move and he could hurt someone. One wrong move, the wolf’ll go mad and he’ll have to be put down. Like a dog.

 

* * *

 

Brooklyn, New York, June 12, 1943 

His parents and his sister meet him at the train station. They’re surrounded by tons of other servicemen doing exactly what Bucky’s doing, hugging his family too tight with bright eyes. His youngesr sister, Olivia, is small enough to giggle as he spins around with her. When it’s Becca’s turn, she just smacks him on the arm and says, “You’ll mess up my hair!”

He takes in the curls and lipstick, then raises his eyebrows. “Why you so worried about how you look, kiddo?” She slaps him again and he just grins.

Bucky’s mother fusses at him as she takes his arm; he hitches his rucksack over his other shoulder. “Are you really ok, Bucky?” she asks, worried. “The telegram said the wound was bad enough to send you home. Are they really thinking you’re well enough to go back?”

They’ve had a variation of this talk every time Bucky’s called home over the past four months. “Yeah, Ma. The Army says I’m good as new.”

She stops, unexpectedly enough that his momentum swings him around to face her. “Are you really? If you’re not--”

He wonders what she thinks they can do-- ain’t no one listening when George and Winifred Barnes tell the government no. He drops his rucksack, takes his ma’s hands, looks up at his pop. “My leg’s good as new, really, and the Army gave me a hell of a lot more training this time around. They made me a sergeant, too. I don’t exactly want to go back, but I’m probably better off’n last time.” Bucky thinks about how he’s nearly indestructible now, how quickly he heals. He tries not to think of mortars and mines, how fast the bullets flew and the shells fell. “So don’t _worry._ ”

His Ma looks him over and gives his hands a squeeze. She says, “All right, James. All right.”

***

The first night he spends with his family, his Ma invites all the aunts and uncles and there’s a mess of kids running around. The uncles want to know what it was like, and the aunts too, maybe, but Bucky has no desire to tell them. It’s like the raw recruits at Benning-- can’t get enough stories but want them to be reassuring. Bucky doesn’t think he can do that, not when he’s scared half to death of going back.

The air’s getting too close and the anger is rising hot in him-- all his, but the wolf’s rising with it-- until his Ma finally says sharply, “Leave Bucky alone!”

He escapes to the back steps after that, watching the kids play stickball and free tag. Olivia is vicious, tagging the boys hard enough to knock them down.

One of the kids-- just a toddler, might belong to Aunt Helen or Uncle Jim-- crawls into his lap, settling there as if it’s his by divine right. He sticks a dirty thumb in his mouth and curls up, sleepy and sticky. Bucky looks down at his face, curls his arms carefully around the kid. Sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength any more.

Eventually it gets dark enough to call the rest of the kids in, and Aunt Helen comes down to take the baby, “There you are, Vinnie. Keeping Bucky company?” She smiles, says, “Thanks for watching him,” as she carries him into the house.

Bucky stays out a bit longer, ‘til everyone’s gone and Becca comes down to sit next to him.

“Was it terrible,” she asks, looking up at the hazy sky and pretending to look for stars.

“Yeah,” he says.

She nods. “I figured. Just. Don’t die, ok?”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises.

“You better,” she says, then punches him in the shoulder and heads upstairs.

***

At breakfast the next morning, George asks, “You going to see Steve?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, probably stay there tonight.”

His dad says, “The only thing I ask is you stay here night before you ship out.”

Bucky tries to hide a grimace behind his coffee cup. Becca raises her eyebrows and Olivia makes a terrible face-- he hadn’t hid it very well. “Yes, sir.”

George nods. “Thanks, son. Your mother will be grateful.”

Bucky thinks he’ll probably be up all night listening to his mother sob-- it’d been bad enough the first time without the super-hearing.

***

He walks over to Steve’s apartment-- the apartment they’d shared before he enlisted. Steve’d argued it was too big for one person, but the Army paid well enough that Bucky told Steve to stuff it and stay. Bucky wasn’t going to let him move back into that shithole Steve and Sarah were in when she died. Bucky’s parents were doing okay, didn’t need his salary.

Bucky is wearing his civvies. It feels nice to get out of khaki, feels like he’s himself again. Pressed trousers, collared shirt, leather shoes. He looked smart, but not like a soldier boy.

Steve isn’t there, so he lets himself in, key under a brick like always because Steve never remembered where he put the damn thing down. Good thing they hardly ever had anything worth stealing.

The apartment is small, front room, kitchen, bedroom, and it smells musty, all the windows closed. It also smells like old meals and charcoal and, underlying it all, the scent of Steve and, fainter, of himself. The wolf stirs, scenting, and Bucky takes the time to call up Steve’s face again, remind the wolf that Steve, like his sisters and his parents, is family and not to be hurt.

He checks the pantry and the larder, finds bread on the edge of edible, potatoes, a few carrots. He grunts, annoyed. Either Steve has been sick again or he’s lost a job. Or both. Even when they mostly ate at the automat, there was still usually more here. He doesn’t like it.

Bucky prowls around a bit longer, impatient, before finally giving up. He writes a note, leaves it on the scarred wood of the table, and heads out.

The neighborhood has hardly changed in the 18 months he’d been gone. Same kids playing stickball, same shops on the street. The wolf, awake now, takes it all in through Bucky’s eyes-- learning the streets and alleys, Bucky checking them out of habit, grinning at the pretty girls, watching the toughs on the corner. He stops at the automat for lunch, eats more than he’s ever been able to afford before, speaks briefly with Mrs. Papakoulis who rings up the sales, then stops at the butcher’s before wandering back to the apartment.

***

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says.

Steve looks up from where he has the newspaper spread out on the table, jumps up, knocking over the chair and nearly tripping over it. “Bucky!”

Bucky grins, says, “Don’t kill yourself there,” and reaches over to hug him.

The wolf sits up and takes notice. ‘Steve,’ Bucky tells him again. ‘Friend.”

“Kind of crushing me, Buck.”

Bucky lets go quick, suddenly scared he’s done damage.

“Guess the Army built up your muscles.” Steve’s tone is faintly envious, and it makes Bucky ache to hear it.

“Everything except the one between my ears,” he jokes, and Steve laughs with him.

After he takes a seat, and Steve hands him a Coke. Bucky, watching Steve fail to take out a second one, pushes the bottle back at him. Steve gives him a look, but Bucky just raises an eyebrow. Steve shakes his head, takes a sip.

“So, how are you?” Steve asks, as they share the bottle back and forth. “Is your leg really ok?”

“It’s,” Bucky stops, puts the bottle on the table, spinning it between his hands and watching how the light hits it. “It’s good as new. Better, even.”

Steve’s watching him carefully now, taking in Bucky’s expression, how Bucky’s still spinning the bottle, how he doesn’t look up.

“Bucky,” Steve says, putting his hand on Bucky’s to stop the bottle turning. “What is it?”

When Bucky left Georgia, the whole way on the train, seeing his family, this was the question in the back of his mind. Tell Steve? Or don’t? Everything he learned from Frazier’s pack screams no-- it’s forbidden, it’s dangerous to Bucky, to the Pack, to Steve. But Bucky left the Pack behind. Now he and the wolf are together, unmoored. Not telling his family was easy-- they would think he was crazy and he couldn’t put his sisters in danger like that.

Steve, though. Steve might be fragile in some ways, but Bucky knows Steve would trust him, would keep his secret. And on Bucky’s walk through the neighborhood this afternoon, there wasn’t even a hint of another wolf.

He looks up and Steve is still watching him, frowning with worry. Worry for Bucky; he’s never worried for himself.

“One minute,” Bucky says, rising and crossing the room to the windows he’d thrown open earlier.  He closes each one, making sure they’re secure, even the one that always sticks open. He goes to the front door, makes sure it’s locked, takes the rag rug they use as a doormat and shoves it under the crack at the bottom to block sound from traveling to anyone listening. He can feel the wolf’s approval of these actions, a shiver down his spine.

He turns back to table where Steve’s staring at him, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “Bucky?”

“I need to tell you something and you can’t tell anyone.”

Steve nods, “Okay.”

Bucky closes his eyes, smells Steve and the sugar-sweet of Coca-Cola, the soap in the sink, then opens them again and looks straight at Steve. “Anyone, Steve. Not even Father Reilly in confession.”

Steve looks surprised, but shakes his head. “I won’t. I wouldn’t. And if it’s that bad, you’d have to tell Father Reilly yourself.”

Bucky laughs a little, bitter edge to it. “Yeah, ok. When I got wounded. When I--”

He’s imagined telling Steve, sitting at this table, still, serious voice. Instead, he’s pacing, hands shaping words in the air.

“They sent us as a scouting party, found a camp of mixed Italians and Germans. We were quiet, but something happened, we got made.” He stops a minute, runs fingers through his hair, risks a glance, and Steve is watching him, hands folded in front of him on the table.

“It was a firefight, and I’d been in a few by then, enough not to piss myself and to know what to do. There were. Ten of us, and probably six survived the bullets.” He breaks off, remembering the scent of blood and the choked off screams. “And then, something rushed us. Big damn dog, it seemed like. But the Germans have dogs sometimes, and we were busy with the bullets. It got--” he stops, swallows.

“I’m not real sure what happened for a bit. The bullets stopped, but the dog--” ‘wolf,’ says his own, “--was vicious and fast as anything. It killed two of the others, just ripped them up.”

Steve’s eyes are big and round, mouth open a little.

Bucky wonders if he’ll hear those sounds in his dreams tonight. Drags his hands down his face, trying to wipe the memories away. “I could hear, but I couldn’t see it. I tried to hide, get behind something, but it found me, jumped me.”

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I don’t remember everything that happened next. I blacked out. When I woke, I thought I was probably a dead man. I--I managed to wrap some cloth around my leg.”

“Tourniquet?”

“Yeah. I checked and Nicholls was awake, wounded, but not as bad as me.” He remembers them trying to bandage one another with the rags they had, doing their best to avoid looking at the remains of the others, torn up as bad as mortars would do to a body, maybe worse.

“We limped out best we could, got lucky ‘cause another patrol’d been sent to find us.” Bucky remembers the relief he felt at seeing the others. “I was bad enough they shipped me home.”

Steve’s just watching him, leaning forward in his chair.

“But I, um. I healed. Fast. Too fast. The doctors were stumped.” He smiles wryly. “I was. Well, I wasn’t that thrilled. But they got me up, said they’d give me some extra training before I had to go back.”

Bucky sighs, turns around to walk back to the table, glancing at the window where the sun is fading. “The day before the full moon,” he stops, makes himself stand up straight and still, look Steve in the eyes again. “I found out that dog was a fucking werewolf.” He takes a breath, makes himself say the words. “And now I am too.”

He stands, arms akimbo, so Steve can look all he wants. He tells himself he’s ready to leave if Steve says to.

“You’re. Are you serious?” Steve looks caught between confused and pissed off that this might be an elaborate prank, mouth taking a mulish cast, shoulders going up defensively and hands clenching to fists on the table.

“I am more serious than I’ve been in my fucking life,” Bucky tells him.

“A werewolf.”

“Yes.”

Steve’s staring at him, looking him up and down, like he’s trying to see a tail. “Like the stories? Like the Curse of Natalis?”

“I don’t know who the fuck Natalis was, but I’m fucking cursed all right. Every fucking full moon I turn furry.”

“Can you,” Steve bites his lip again. “Can you show me?”

Honestly, Bucky’d figured it would happen, which is why he’d stopped at the butcher’s on the way home. He slaps the sack on the table, says, “You cook this steak and I will.”

Instantly, Steve is scowling and irritated. “I ain’t your little wife!”

“And I ain’t trying to be an asshole, but changing hurts and it makes me hungry as hell, so if I’m going to do it for you, I need something to eat.”

He watches as Steve sits back, placated, but also, “It hurts?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says grimly. “All my bones rearrange and skin moves around.” At this, Steve goes a little pale. “And it hurts like anything. But I figured I’d need to show you.” He sighs, rakes his fingers through his hair again. “I’d sure as hell have to see it to believe.”

“Anyway, I’m going into the bedroom. Don’t come in, no matter what you hear.”

Steve nods. “All right, you want potatoes with your steak?”

Bucky smiles a little. “Sure, pal. Thanks.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

***

The change takes about twenty minutes, which is still a little faster than Bucky’s managed before. When it’s done, he shakes himself all over, the best way to get rid of the remaining ache of rearranged bones and tingling muscles. Then he stretches fore and aft, before walking to the door. He’d pulled it closed, but hadn’t jiggled it so the latch caught. It’s easy to nose the door open and to trot out to where Steve is standing at the stove.

Steve clearly hasn’t heard him, too busy messing around with the steaks in the kitchen. Bucky can’t resist shoving his nose into Steve’s belly, which leads to Steve jumping back from the stove with a yelp.

“What the hell, Bucky!” he shouts, turning with the fork raised to see Bucky grinning a wide doggy grin at him. “Jesus Christ!”

Steve steps back a bit and just stares, until Bucky nudges at the stove. Steve turns off the burner and moves the pan from the heat. He gropes for a chair and turns it so he can drop into it.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says again, half-awed, half-stunned. “I didn’t think you were lying, but I didn’t think-- You’re huge, Buck. And your eyes are gold.”

Bucky makes an exaggerated nod. He keeps back from the table, just watching Steve.

“I guess you can’t speak, huh,” Steve grimaces. “You, um. You hungry?”

Bucky nods again, and whines a little, making Steve smile. “Well, I guess that hasn’t changed.”

The steak Steve places in front of him a minute later disappears nearly as fast. Steve watches as Bucky lickes his chops. He says, “Can I touch you?”

Bucky pauses. The other wolves in the Georgia pack had bumped against him when they’d gone hunting. Frazier had grabbed his ruff a time or two. It’d gone okay once he’d gotten over the surprise. Well, he’d only snapped the once.

He walks closer, until he’s standing between Steve’s chair and the stove, and he nods twice before he feels it. Steve’s hands stroke over his back and sides, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence.

“Your fur’s kind of rough, but it’s really thick.”  
  
Steve digs his fingers in, playing with the fur, until Bucky gives a little growl.

“Don’t like that, huh. Ok,” and he goes back to petting firmly. “I think you’re grey, Bucky, s’what it seems like.”

Bucky thumps the floor with his tail.

“How long do you have to stay like this? Couple hours? All night?”

Bucky considers. He’s changed outside of the moon before, but it’s easier to change back the longer he waits. A couple hours sounds right. He gingerly pokes at the wolf, but doesn’t get much in response-- he’s found that time isn’t a particularly meaningful concept to the wolf. Instead, the wolf instead sends an impression of what it might feel like if Steve scratches behind their ears.

Bucky thumps his tail a couple times, best he can do for communication, and then lays down on Steve’s feet.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Steve says, “Still a lazy bum.” Bucky wrinkles his lip and shows his teeth; Steve ignores the implied threat and keeps petting.

At some point Steve gets up, curses at Bucky for nearly tripping him, and gets his own dinner-- the rest of the steak and a potato. He looks at the second potato dubiously, and then tosses it to Bucky, who snaps it out of the air. Steve turns on the radio and moves over to their sitting room and their one easy chair. Bucky follows, laying on Steve’s feet again, and they listen to the Dodgers lose to the Braves.

After Steve finishes cursing out Davis and his shitty pitching, Bucky stands up, stretches again, and trots back to the bedroom, using his body weight to close the door.

***

Bucky’s dressed when he comes back out, hungry again but otherwise just as put together as when he’d arrived. Steve just looks at him from the chair and shakes his head.

“Sure don’t look like a wolf now, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “And you sure do look like a punk.” He looks around for his jacket. “I need something to eat, want to come?”

Steve stares. “You just ate that steak! I gave you the bigger portion.”

“Yeah,” Bucky shrugs. “I told you, shifting’s hungry work.”

“All right, fine, but I’ve got more questions.”

Sister Mary Redeemer always said Steve’d question God on Judgement Day. “All right, pal, and I’ll answer them, but better do it back here, after dinner.”

***

When they get back from Horn & Hardart’s, Steve begins his interrogation again. Bucky sighs, does his best to answer the questions, does his best to anticipate what is coming. He knows the last one will be worst of all.

“So you can change whenever you want?” Steve asks, gesturing to the dark sky outside their window.

Bucky nods. “I mean, it costs, like you saw. And I have to shift on the full moon no matter what.”

“Do you,” Steve pauses delicately. “Are there side effects?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Side effects?”

Steve blushes, though his mouth is set in that way that means he’s going to keep asking until he gets an answer, so matter how unpleasant the questions get. “You said you were, ‘better than new.’”

Bucky sighs. “Better sight, hearing’s too sensitive, it’s a pain. Heal faster. And it’s hard to hang onto my temper.”

The last makes Steve snort. “Sweet-tempered Barnes? Never loses his cool?”

“Pot, the kettle just called,” Bucky fires back, annoyed. Steve looks like he’s going to keep going, but he catches something in Bucky’s face.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

The rest of the night is the same-- questions on questions until Bucky is close to screaming. Strangely, though, while he can feel his anger rising, it’s all his, and the wolf simply seems amused and fond. Better than biting Steve’s head off, though, he supposes.

***

Two days later, Steve works up to asking Bucky to bite him. The apartment shakes with the force of the fight.

It’s Steve who slams out first, banging his elbow painfully against the door, mouth a furious line. Bucky lets him go, stands over the sink and grips it hard enough to hear it creak.

“God _damn_ it,” he says, then drops into one of the kitchen chairs, bending his head towards his knees, lacing his fingers together behind it. He shakes as he takes several deep breaths, trying to find a calm place in the anger.

And then the wolf speaks up.

It sends an impression of the feel of Steve’s flesh parting beneath their teeth, his blood in their mouth, vivid enough to make Bucky gag. It goes on, Steve turning into a wolf, Steve running with them. Steve as pack.

Bucky draws back from the vision, horrified.

“No,” he says, out loud. “No. Steve is never, ever becoming like this. No.”

In his head, the wolf whines, bereft. Steve is theirs, it seems to say, and they can make him stronger, keep him with them.

Bucky answers, “Maybe kill him in the Change. Send him to war if he survives. Make him a killer.”

The wolf whines again.

“I won’t,” Bucky says, his voice loud in the empty room. “No.”

Bucky goes out then, walks a long, long time, until he finds himself in his own neighborhood and goes in to see his parents, the girls. It helps, seeing family. And, of course, it makes it easier for the telegram with his orders to reach him.

***

Later, he finds Steve in an alley. Getting the shit kicked out of him, of course. The wolf sends him pictures of the mook’s blood on their hands and Bucky hits harder than he probably should. Of course, Steve had tried to enlist again. Steve’s eyes have a bruised, bitter look to them, an accusation. Bucky refuses to feel guilty about this, though. Many things, he thinks as he waits for Steve to get cleaned up. But not this.

 

* * *

 

Austria, October 1943 

Zola looks over his records, then looks up through the observation window. Prisoner 74 is... intriguing. He has survived all of the tests, up to now, which makes him one of a select group. In addition, he heals extremely quickly, even early on in the testing. He also seems stronger than most, even half starved. When he isn’t reciting name, rank, and serial number, or screaming, he seems to be staring out the windows, particularly at night. At first, Zola wondered if he was waiting for rescue, but it was unlikely. Now, after 17 days of careful observation, Zola is prepared to advance a theory. Prisoner 74, he thinks, is a werewolf.

Werewolves! It’s an exciting prospect, to have one in his lab. Everything he has heard posits them as extremely dangerous creatures. They are difficult to kill, with only silver and decapitation working reliably, and they are very aggressive, territorial. Zola understands that Prisoner 74 had drawn the guards away from another prisoner, so perhaps this one is territorial towards those he thinks of as his people. He certainly had been aggressive, though he hadn’t killed any of the guards, which Zola finds strange. Playing human, perhaps? This is where Zola’s theory founders. Is a werewolf human enough, clever enough, to realize that killing the guards will not benefit him?

Regardless, here they are. The prisoner is affected by the infusions, though perhaps less so than his fellows. Zola has ordered additional tests of his healing factor. Careful study has shown that there is no layer of fur beneath the skin, as some legends have it. However, if a metal instrument is left within the skin long enough, it will heal around it. This is an intriguing prospect-- perhaps there could be some advantage for Hydra’s forces?

While the healing factor has increased in speed after several rounds of treatments, he believes that additional tests are warranted. Zola wonders what chemicals in particular will be most effective-- there are a few new compounds he has been developing. He starts drafting a number of experiments to test them carefully.

 

* * *

 

Austria, November 3, 1943 

Lying there on the table, strapped down and burning, Bucky forces himself not to change. He resists the pull of the wolf on his mind, chanting, “Don’t change, don’t change,” when he isn’t chanting name, rank, and serial number. If he had a moment, he would wonder that they never hear, never ask. But free moments are impossible to come by in HYDRA prisons.

When Steve appears, Bucky can’t smell him. He panics, flailing and pulling Steve to his face. He breathes and breathes.

“It’s me, Buck,” Steve says, worried. “It’s me.”

Outside, after-- after the weaselly doctor has escaped, after the man with red face like something out of a nightmare, after they’ve all gathered in the trees-- Bucky looks up, sees the moon nearly full, feels the pull of it. He breathes deep, shuddery breaths, trying to clear the scent of factory, of death, the distinctive sickening ozone of the energy weapons. He straightens and moves away from the tree he’s leaning against to find Steve and the other officers. When he’s close, he has to grab a tree again, swaying, because _there’s_ Steve’s scent, the familiar smell deep in his nose, warm in his chest. He breathes it in for a moment before he straightens, walks over to the little knot of men, asks, “Orders, sir?”

Steve’s eyes are concerned, but he’s willing to pull Bucky into his plan.

When they get back to camp-- limping and footsore, with the wounded slung across shoulders or in the tank-- he eels away from the med tent as soon as he can. Jones is the one who catches his eye, gives a little nod. Bucky nods back, gives a quick head tilt, and heads toward the woods outside of camp. He eases round the sentry, smells fresh water and heads toward it. Once he’s there, once he’s washed the blood and the fear-stink, chemical-stink off himself, he slips from the water, walks naked into the trees nearby, and breathes, breathes, lets go. Shifts.

The change takes forever, the pain deep but familiar. Even after only ten months, he’s become used to the feel of bones popping, muscles rearranging. It hurts, but it’s a clean hurt and it helps, a bit, to counter the time spent in the weasel-doctor’s hell.

When the change is complete, he rises to his feet, shakes off the last pain-tingles, and walks through the trees. The wolf is forward in his mind. It sends him impressions of ripping the weasel-doctor to shreds. They have the doctor’s scent, or what Bucky thinks is his scent. By the end, when he couldn’t smell Steve… The wolf shakes their head at that, and then they run.

They run as far and as fast as they can, tearing through the trees, scaring a few rabbits. The wolf pounces, slapping one with a huge paw, then tearing into it. It’s been years, it feels like, since the last time he ate enough. He’s perpetually hungry, and the rabbit is welcome as food, as fuel.

Bucky makes sure they run in a wide circle around the camp, until they eventually end up where he started, near the lake. When they arrive, it’s hours later and the sky is dark, the night making them feel almost at peace. He scents Steve, and they run back towards the camp, fast as they can, skidding to a halt in front of him.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, a little unsure, wary.

Bucky wants to roll his eyes. Instead, he butts Steve in the stomach, then jumps up on his back legs and hooks front paws over Steve’s shoulders, higher than he remembers. He remembers dogs who used to do this back home. Steve’s laugh sounds surprised, but he gamely rubs his hands up and down the fur on Bucky’s sides, then up to his head, before scratching behind his ears.

Bucky opens his mouth in a doggy grin, then huffs a laugh as Steve shouts, “Ugh, your breath!”

He drops down, and Steve sits beside him in the grass.

“Thought I lost you, Buck. When I didn’t see you with the other guys.”

Bucky can’t answer in this shape, and he’s grateful. He’s content, for the moment, to listen to Steve, sit snugged up beside him, feel the hand that brushes through his fur. Finally, though, his belly rumbles.

Steve laughs. “I got some food waiting for you, if you can change back.”

Bucky stands, trots away toward where he changed before. Steve starts after him, and then stops when Bucky whirls and growls.

“Uh, ok. You, ah. Want I should wait with your clothes?” Steve looks back, to a pile behind him. “I brought some clean ones.”

Bucky exaggerates the nod to be sure that Steve gets it, then turns back into the woods. The change back goes mostly like normal-- painful, but not overly slow despite how hungry he is. He figures that must mean he needed it. He’ll have to change again in a few nights-- the moon will be full soon-- but just running as the wolf made him feel, surprisingly, more like himself than he has in a while.

When he emerges from the woods, he’s naked, but Steve’s seen it all before. Bucky dresses quickly, because it’s cold out, he’s hungry, and dawn’s going to come too goddamn soon.

Steve smiles at him when he’s dressed, holds out his tags. “You look better.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He knows how he looks.

“No, you do. Maybe calmer?” Steve shrugs. “Let’s get back and get some food, and then you need some sleep. They are going to want to debrief you tomorrow.”

This makes Bucky look up, wary. “They mad that I wasn’t there for that?”

Steve lifts one shoulder. “Well, there were a lot of prisoners and not a lot of secretaries. They got a lot of the others today, but there are still quite a few left, so it won’t look too odd that they missed you today.”

Bucky nods. “All right.”

They’re quiet for a while, walking side-by-side back to camp, until Steve says, “If you want to talk about it…”

Bucky shakes his head, probably too fast. “No.”

Steve nods, but he looks a little frustrated. “Ok, but if you want--”

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky says. “I’ll let you know.”

When Bucky would have avoided the sentries and snuck back in, Steve shakes his head. “I got the password before I came out.” He walks right up to them, reports name and rank, gives them the code, and they are let in without a fuss.

Bucky laughs at him a little. “When did you turn into a boy scout?”

Steve sighs, “I’m on a short leash, at the moment.”

“You don’t say.”

“Come on, jerk. My tent’s over here and I’ve got spam sandwiches.”

“Oh boy,” Bucky grimaces. “My favorite!”

 

* * *

 

England, November-December 1943 

Bucky can tell that Phillips is not impressed with Steve’s choice of squad. Phillips also doesn’t have a choice because rescuing more than 400 men from a Hydra camp gives you the kind of leverage Steve’s never been too proud to use. Instead, Phillips pulls them all back to SSR headquarters in London for training. Phillips isn’t one of the officers in the know about werewolves. This is… challenging.

After Major Burke found out about Bucky, he made sure Bucky went to a company where one of the officers knew what was what. There were three other wolves there, and, Bucky might not have liked them that much, but he came out on top of their subtle dominance games. Between that and being a sergeant, Bucky made damn sure they had extra rations and the officer got them a pass for the full moon. It wasn’t perfect, that was for damn sure, but it worked well enough, right up until they went into Azzano and got hit by Hydra’s blue ray guns. Two of the other wolves disappeared in the first volley and the officer died in the factory. Now there’s no one in authority who has the least idea about what Bucky is other than Steve, and Steve’s too busy figuring out what the hell a Captain does to be much help.

It’s a month after their escape and they’re doing some kind of SSR wilderness training-- which is bullshit because England has nothing resembling wilderness and Bucky’d gone through a much harder course at Fort Benning. He’s tired and cold and really god damned hungry. It’s also one day from the full moon, so his temper’s on a knife’s edge. Which is, of course, exactly when it starts raining, when Jones looks up from the compass and map to say he’s got no idea where he is, and when Steve, still apparently unused to his ginormous new feet and not being half-blind, trips over a bush.

The string of profanity Bucky lets out is enough to silence even Dugan.

“All right, assholes,” Bucky barks. “Frenchie, take the compass, Monty, help him with the map and figure out how fucking far we are from the next fucking pub. Jones, Morita, something has been rattling in your packs the last two miles, if we were in Austria the fucking Jerries would have already shot us. Dugan, go over there and take a piss. Quietly. I know you have to go, you always have to fucking go.”

He sees Steve open his mouth to object and says, “Steve, I don’t care what Command said, we are using our god damned operational latitude to make a fucking field decision. Because that is what you fucking do in the field.”

Steve stares at him, but Bucky just keeps going. “Now, I will be over that hill for the next 15 fucking minutes and when I come back you,” he points to Monty and Dernier, “will have a route plotted. You two,” he points at Morita and Jones, “will be repacked and silent. And you,” he points at Dugan and Steve, “will be ready to go. Understood?”

There is a chorus of “Yes, Sergeant,” and Bucky whirls around and stalks off for a smoke and 15 minutes of peace and quiet, or as much as you can get with motherfucking super-hearing. He expects it to last maybe 5 minutes, tops, before the whispering starts. He is not disappointed.

“What’s got his panties in a twist?” remarks Jim indignantly. Though, from the sounds he’s making, he is unpacking as ordered.

Dernier sucks his teeth, mutters something in his thick Gascogne accent that Bucky can’t make out, and, from the sound of it, gets to work with the compass and map, comparing notes with Monty. Then, Bucky hears Dum Dum murmur, “It’s all right, Captain. Sometimes the Sarge just loses his temper. Usually his back to his regular pleasant self--”

“Ha,” says Jones.

“--pretty quick. His bark is worse than his bite.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Steve says, then launches into a story about Bucky and some neighborhood toughs.

Bucky comes back 15 minutes later, feeling calmer. Steve gives him a look, but Bucky just ignores it. When Dernier and Monty have a route plotted, Bucky herds them off in the right direction.

Having made it back to civilization, even if Phillips disapproves of their methods, they have the next night off. Bucky gives Steve a quick nudge before he takes off.

“He got a girl?” he hears Morita ask.

“Bucky always has a girl,” says Steve, and buys the next round.

The guys are merciless with their teasing the next day, but Bucky is more relaxed than he has been in a while, and alternately waves it off or makes equally filthy comments back. In a quiet moment, Steve turns to him and says, “Let me know when they’re coming and I’ll figure something out.”

Bucky nods.

“Is it really that bad?”

Bucky grimaces, “There’s nowhere to run and no one to run with.” Then he turns back to the guys and laughs at a joke at Monty’s expense.

 

* * *

 

Western Front, January-February 1944 

By the end of the month, the squad works better together than anyone’s reasonable expectation, and Steve’s figured out how to pass as an officer, so they’re out in the field again in time for Christmas.

They spend most of January and February on the Front like ordinary grunts, working as part of the regular army. Their first couple of missions are small, tests to see what damage they can they can do to Hydra, what Command can think up. They work well as a team, accomplish objectives-- they manage to take a Hydra factory off the map. Bucky, herding the boys and making sure their Captain knows what’s doing, can see that Steve just itching for something bigger, bolder.

It's their third mission out and this one goes sideways real fast, goes to hell even faster. They’re five days out from their own lines, which is three more days than planned. They’ve spent two days holed up in an abandoned village because the army’s intel was shit and there was an entire company of regular German army working with the Hydra bastards. Steve still wants to achieve their objective, but Bucky’s having a hard time seeing how they’re going to manage much more than getting away with their skins intact.

Their rations are just about gone. Steve pretends he's not hungry, but Bucky’s seen him put food away back at camp; he eats enough for three men. Bucky is about starving and he's definitely lost weight-- he’s notching his belt a hell of a lot tighter today than he did when they left. He remembers what Frazier said about werewolves and food. If they weren’t nearly surrounded, he’d change so he could go hunting, though if he can’t find food he isn’t sure he'll be able to shift back. Bucky does his best to stay away from everyone, taking extra watches, working to keep the wolf calm so it doesn’t snap. And then, suddenly, the Germans are there.

It’s almost funny, he thinks, climbing up on the roof to pick off as many as he can, listening to Gabe translate the German, because of course the fucking Krauts are looking for food. The Commandos have picked this place clean twice over. If he ends up dead in a firefight because everyone was too fucking hungry, he’s going to laugh all the way to the Pearly Gates.

He manages to pick off a good number of them, before the Germans get wise and it’s SNAFU, hide and shoot and run and shoot and do it all over a-fucking-gain.

For the first time on this fucking FUBAR of a mission, though, they get lucky. Morita counted 12 Germans coming in and the number of dead matches up. They gather the bodies, piling them up in an empty house so they aren’t so obvious before they get out of dodge. Bucky stares at the dead Germans for a long time before he makes himself walk away.

After, Steve comes to check on him. “Are you ok?”

Bucky's in the second floor of the house, gun resting on a window sill as he scans the area. He’s pretty sure this was a small scout group, but he’d rather be ready if more Krauts show up. All he can hear, though, are the rest of the Commandos packing up to move out. “I'm fine, Steve,” he says, staring out the window.

“Bucky, you're not fine.”

Bucky turns and looks at Steve, who’s standing there in his ridiculous blue suit, hood down and hair a mess, like he ran his fingers through it half a dozen times. Bucky finally says, “I'm hungry.”

Steve’s watching him closely. “I know, Buck. Me too.” His hands slip awkwardly into his pockets. “We all are.”

Bucky closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he knows the wolf is looking out. “Steve, all I can smell is the meat right downstairs and I'm _hungry_.”

Steve looks horrified.

Bucky looks away. “Yeah, I know,” he says, “I'm a god damned monster.”

 

* * *

 

Italy, Spring 1944 

“And don’t come back until it’s _right_!”

“Yes, Sergeant,” glowers Dugan, standing on the other side of the table serving as Bucky’s desk. He executes a perfect salute, then turns and heads for door to the thin canvas tent, just as Steve’s coming in.

Dugan mutters, “Fuck you, too, Sergeant, you unmitigated asshole--” from just outside the tent and Bucky stands up, hands clenched, leaps over the table on his way to make it _extremely_ clear how insubordination is going to be treated from now on.

Steve steps in front of him, grabbing his shoulder. It’s the only thing that stops him from storming out the door after Dugan, and it isn’t going to for long.

“He has a point, you know.” Steve says it in that mild voice that drives Bucky up a wall. He heard what Dugan said too, Steve’s hearing is too good for him not to. “You’ve been riding them all a little hard, lately.”

Bucky steps back, and glares at Steve. “If they did it right the first fucking time--” he starts.

“You’d find something else to ride them on.”

Steve stands a foot in front of him, watching him too closely. Bucky turns away, growling, starts pacing in front of the desk.

“You need to run?” Steve asks, sounding concerned. “Get out of here for a little bit?”

Bucky whirls, arm coming up to point at him. “Don’t manage me, Steve.”

Steve crosses his arms, hips cocked as he frowns. “Oh, so you’re the only one who gets to do that?”

Bucky doesn’t say yes, but he looks over at Steve and shrugs as he keeps pacing.

Steve wanders over to the desk, and Bucky can’t help but be aware of the movement, even when his back is turned. “I figured you’d get this out of your system on our last leave,” Steve says, picking up the box of ammo Bucky’s using as a paperweight and shaking it.

That brings Bucky up short, and he faces Steve again. “What?”

Steve leans back against the desk, still holding the ammo, and rolls his eyes. “What, you think I don’t notice? You go out, you meet some girl--”

Bucky can’t help but grin, crossing his arms and lifting a brow. “Meet?”

“Even if you’re at a brothel, you’re still meeting ‘em,” Steve says, blushing. He shakes his head. “Anyway, you go, you have a good time, you act a whole lot less like a wounded bear for a couple of weeks.

Bucky’s watching him, somehow caught on that blush. “I do, huh?”

Steve puts down the ammo with a click. “Yeah, Buck, you do. I don’t know what’s got you striking out, maybe these Italian girls are suddenly immune to your charms--”

“Ha. Ha.”

He shakes his head, “--but you need to let off some steam before we have a mutiny on our hands and I’m down a 2IC.”

“They couldn’t take me,” Bucky says, dead sure of it, wolf growling in agreement, posture aggressive in the middle of the tent.

Steve stands up from the desk, turns to face him, rolling his shoulders back, arms loose the way he gets before a fight. “Maybe not, but I could--”

Without any kind of direction from his brain, Bucky’s hands curl into fists. “No you couldn’t.”

“Yes I _could_ ,” Steve says, and takes a step forward, “and I’m just about ready to help them.”

That makes Bucky stare. Steve is more than half serious.

He drops his shoulders, scrubs both hands over his face. “Fuck,” he growls. “Fuck!”

Bucky kicks out at the camp chair by the desk and it flies across the tent, hit the canvas, then the floor. Steve stays silent, just watching him, the same way Steve always watches when he twigs to Bucky being upset.

“Fuck,” Bucky says again, finally giving in to the inevitable and walking away, leaning against the center tent pole. “You’re right, I know you’re right. I’m so wound up I can barely think straight.”

Steve’s watching him when he looks up, close enough in the dim light to see the dark circles under his eyes, his ragged shave. “You sleeping?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“After you--” Steve blushes a bit, turns back to lean on the desk again. “After the girls, can you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

Steve cocks his head. “What about after a run?”

“Only do that on the full moon, Steve.”

He looks a little curious. “But you could any time, right? You did after-- you did back home”

Bucky shrugs, ignores the slip. “Yeah, I guess. Best not to in camp-- you know I can’t always turn back right away.”

Steve nods, clearly considering. “Yeah, ok, I can give you a night’s liberty. I don’t think the guys would grumble if you stopped being a jerk when you came back.

Bucky’s already shaking his head. “Not gonna help, pal.”

“What, you go off girls?” Steve asks sarcastically, then he stares accusingly at Bucky, “Wait! I thought you said you can’t get sick!”

He looks pissed that Bucky lied to him, and Bucky hastens to say, “I didn’t lie, it’s not the clap.”

“Good.” They’ve been through two bouts of it already and the last time Steve had done some serious lecturing before he let Gabe get a penicillin shot. “All right, then, what’s wrong?”

Bucky sighs, looks down at his hands. “I can’t… go with girls right now.”

“What?” Steve just looks confused, and Bucky feels like an idiot.

“I been-- Look, that last girl,” he scowls up at Steve and admits, “I left bruises.”

“Guys leave bruises, Buck,” Steve says quietly, and it’s all Bucky can do not to snarl, not to demand ‘how would you fucking know, Steve.’

“No, Steve,” and now he’s angry again. “Guys do not leave fucking purple handprints all over their girls unless they’re assholes who beat girls bloody.” His voice is deadly and the anger that wells up, it’s all directed at himself now.

He sighs, runs fingers through his hair. “And I’ve been picking girls with a little more meat on their bones for a while now, staying away close to the full moon, and it’s. Not. Fucking. Helping.”

He looks over at Steve and laughs roughly. He starts pacing again, back and forth around the desk. “So unless you know some girl who heals like I do, then you’re just going to have to get used to my sparkling personality, got it?” He growls, so angry, practically panting. “It’s not like I’m enjoying this either, asshole--”

“--a girl.”

“What,” he bites off, whirling to face Steve.

“I said, I don’t know a _girl_ ,” says Steve, and it takes a minute for Bucky to catch up, run the conversation back. “But I do know someone who heals like you.”

He’s looking Bucky in the eye now. He’s the only one who can, and it doesn’t feel like some kind of fucking challenge. If anything, the fucking voice in his head that doesn’t exactly belong to him perks up and he gets the impression of rightness. Which, god damn it, you stupid fucking furball--

“You lose your mind when you agreed to be someone’s lab rat?” Bucky asks, and that, the fact that Steve did that, never fails to piss Bucky off. He doesn’t need more anger spinning him up right now, thank you so much, Steve.

Steve just stands there and smiles, like what he’s saying is sane or something. Like he’s somehow convinced this conversation has taken a reasonable turn. “I’m not crazy, Bucky.”

“You’re talking crazy.” Bucky says it flat, final, but when he turns away, he smells--

When he first Changed, smells were overwhelming. He made it a point to lock them away as best he could, but you couldn’t be around an army’s worth of guys and not get used to the smell of lust. Steve smells like musk and need, and it’s shocking enough that he turns back around, says, “You mean it.”

Steve stands up from the desk. “Course I mean it, Buck.”

Bucky cocks his head, watching him carefully. “No, I mean, you’re stupid enough to offer--”

“Hey!”

Bucky shakes his head. “You are, you stupid punk, I can smell it.”

Steve’s blush comes back, but he stands straight, crosses his arms. “Smell?”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughs at the blush, “You stink.”

Steve might be blushing, but he squares his shoulders and starts walking up to Bucky.

“I stink, huh?”

“I know how lust smells, Rogers.” Then, smug, “You got it bad.”

“Well,” Steve doesn’t stop, walks right into his space, pushing up against his chest. “Maybe there’s someone who’s driving me nuts.”

“You’re already nuts, Rogers.”

“I know, I know,” Steve says. “But, I think you’re right there with me.”

And he leans down that inch or so he has on Bucky now to press a kiss to his lips. It’s quick and a little dry. Steve pulls away, clearly a little uneasy at the lack of response, except Bucky grabs his arm and surges up to deepen the kiss. When Steve leans back, he looks a little dazed, but shakes it off quickly and starts to lean in again. Then they hear boots on the ground and--

“Cap, you in there?”

They jump apart as Morita comes in. He looks a little curious and Bucky growls, furious, frightened and turned on.

“Stop that,” Steve snaps at him, then turns to Morita. “What’s doing, Jim?”

Morita stands just inside the doorway. “New orders, sir. Debrief at 1800. They want you in Command.”

Steve looks at the clock on the desk, nods, and says, “All right, I’m coming now. Sergeant, we’ll continue this discussion at 2130 in my tent.”

Bucky gives him a look, then a lazy salute. “Yes, sir, Captain, sir.”

Steve shakes his head, small smirk pulling at his lips. “Jerk.”

He turns and heads out, leaving Morita and Bucky to watch one another.

“Everything ok, Sarge?” Morita asks cautiously.

Bucky considers a minute. “Yeah, it will be. When we get out of here again.” He heads for the entrance, clapping Morita on the back. “Let’s go get some chow.”

Morita raises his eyes at Bucky’s mood, but says only, “Sure, I heard it’s steak tonight, sarge.”

Bucky laughs. “The mess wouldn't know a cow if it walked up and moo’d at them.”

***

When Bucky ducks into Steve’s tent at 2200, Steve looks up at him from where he’s lying in bed, reading. “I figured it was fifty-fifty whether you actually came,” he says, surprised.

Bucky smiles wryly. “Morita heard your order, Captain. Made sure I didn’t forget.” He stays back toward the entrance to the tent. “What did Command want?”

Steve rolls up to standing, walks the few steps over to lean against his desk. He studies Bucky as he goes, and it makes Bucky feel itchy. “Like Jim said, new orders. We’ll be shipping out day after tomorrow.”

Bucky’s relieved-- getting out of camp, away from too many guys, too many smells, always helps. “Where to this time?” he asks, stepping closer and into the light.

Steve smiles a little, picks up a folder from his desk. “Back to Austria. They think they’ve got another Hydra base for us.”

Bucky nods, listens as Steve gives him the bare bones outline of the assignment, reads through the offered papers. He offers a couple of comments, and Steve nods back. It’s like every night after they get orders, before they brief the rest of the Howlies. Bucky leans against the desk and pulls out a notebook, makes a list of what they’ll need, so he can start hustling for it tomorrow.

“All right, I’ll start in on this first thing.” He glances up from the notebook, shifts to stand. “When do you want us to meet?”

“Ten hundred is soon enough,” Steve says, watching him from the shadow, just outside the light of the lamp.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says, turns to go.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice is plaintive, and Bucky freezes a minute, before turning back.

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said, you know.” Steve’s standing there, hands at his sides, carefully upright.

“Yeah,” Bucky smiles tightly and taps his nose. “This doesn’t lie.”

“You change your mind?”

It’s quiet for a minute, and Bucky’s breathing is maybe a little uneven. He can’t stop his fingers from balling to fists. Bucky isn’t sure if it’s losing or winning when he steps forward, closer into Steve’s space. He steps just within reach, arms coming up to fold across his chest, trying to pretend he isn’t as eager as Steve.

“Your eyes have gone gold,” Steve observes, sounding a little shaky. Then he takes a breath and steps forward, reaches out and grabs Bucky’s shoulder.

Steve pulls him close, until Bucky’s got to drop his arms, and then they’re standing body to body. Steve leans in to kiss him, more sure than this afternoon. And this time, Bucky responds right away, one hand gripping Steve’s left arm, the other wrapping around his waist to pull him close.

For a while, a long while, that’s all it is. The two of them standing in the dimly lit tent and kissing, rubbing against one another. Bucky can’t get over the feel of Steve’s lips under his. The scent of Steve’s arousal makes him dizzy. He pulls them tighter, uses his strength until they’re pressed tight against one another, and it feels incredible.

Eventually, Steve pulls away, slightly out of breath, and Bucky runs greedy hands over Steve’s shoulders, down his chest. He wants Steve’s shirt off, wants to get at the skin under his collar, but he’s not sure he’s coordinated enough to deal with the fucking buttons. Thank God, Steve’s not wearing a tie, and he leans down to lick Steve’s throat, pushes aside cloth with his nose to suck a bruise on his collar bone.

Steve reaches down to get at the buttons on Bucky’s trousers, hands shaking a little against the cloth, and it makes Bucky smile into the skin of Steve’s neck. He tries to cant his hips to be helpful, but can’t manage to let go, nibbling at skin and knowing that any mark he leaves will disappear before morning.

He gasps when Steve grips his cock, then growls. He manages enough coordination to drop a hand to Steve’s waist, drag Steve’s shirt up to get at skin, rubbing a hand up Steve’s side. It makes Steve gasp a little, laugh a little, and that makes Bucky grin and bite, suck a bruise up to the surface. Steve leans back, and Bucky watches as he makes a show of bringing his right hand up to lick it, then move it back down again.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky whispers. It makes Steve smile.

Bucky can’t help himself. He leans in to take Steve’s mouth again while Steve works his cock. It’s a little rough, spit’s no kind of slick and Steve’s hands have callouses from using his shield, fewer from using a handgun. Steve’s so sure of himself, confident, hand rubbing from root to tip and back again. The slide and friction feel so good that it doesn’t take long until Bucky pulls back from the kiss and just rests his forehead against Steve’s, gasping hot breaths across Steve’s cheek. Just before he comes, he buries his face back in Steve’s neck to stifle his groan, biting hard, knowing with satisfaction that it’ll leave another mark.

Bucky sags, gone boneless, and Steve staggers a little under his weight. “Buck?” he asks quietly, “You ok there?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grits out. “Just, gimme a minute.”

He holds on, getting his breath back, as Steve reaches his left hand down into a pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He hugs Bucky close while cleaning him off, and Bucky keeps his face buried in Steve’s neck. He can smell his own release, mingled with Steve’s scent. It makes the wolf preen a little, at the back of his head.

When Steve finishes, Bucky says, “C’mere,” and leans back in to kiss him, hard and claiming, until Steve gives a stifled little moan. Then he flicks open the buttons of Steve’s fly, licks his own palm, and begins to return the favor.

Steve shivers as Bucky runs his hand lightly up and down Steve’s dick, getting a feel for it. He leans back a little before tightening his grip. He wants to see Steve’s face, wants to feel that shiver again, make him moan. Then he starts stroking, keeping his grip firm, setting a good rhythm, not to fast or slow. He watches Steve’s face closely, until Steve closes his eyes, throws his head back. Bucky’s left hand is braced against Steve’s back, and he leans down to mouth at Steve’s neck again, leaves more sucking, biting kisses along Steve’s collarbone.

“Uh, Bucky,” Steve moans.

He stops, snaps, “Quiet!” not loud but with so much force that Steve freezes for a second.

Bucky lets his lips travel up to Steve’s ear, hand still on his dick, murmurs, “Gotta be quiet, Steve,” and then, at his nod, bites kisses back down his neck. He lets his hand start moving again, a little rougher, maybe, until Steve brings his own hand up to his mouth, bites down on his fist to keep quiet. He’s panting, and Bucky gives another growl, twists his hand, and watches as Steve comes, the rush of it making him sway. Bucky has to let go of Steve’s cock fast, grabbing Steve’s waist to keep him from falling.

Then they’re leaning against one another, in the middle of Steve’s small tent, bed not two steps away, just holding one another up. Looking over at the bed, Bucky starts laughing, and Steve joins in a second later.

It doesn’t last long, it’s a release of tension more than anything, and it’s Bucky who stops laughing first. He pulls back to grin at Steve. Steve’s smile back is bright, and they move apart to pull their clothes back together. Bucky finds the water bucket and they rinse their hands, Steve sighing as he catches sight of the stained fabric on his left hip.

“You’re lucky I didn’t drop you, pal,” Bucky says in response. “You’re fucking heavy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, waving him off.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, then he darts in for a quick kiss. “See you in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

Italy and Austria, Spring 1944

They don't do it often, of course. And when they do, well. There are rules. Unspoken, of course, but rules nonetheless.

The first is that no one can know. If anyone found out, well. Bucky would probably get a blue card. Might just get sent to one of the forward units, where life expectancy is shit even if you don't have to watch your back 24/7. Steve… Bucky thinks it's less likely they'll just send him home. It’s a whole lot more likely that he'll end up heroically dead before the war’s over, or maybe in an SSR lab for the rest of his life.

The corollary to rule one is “don't act any different.” Bucky's suddenly aware of all those casual touches they share daily. At first he finds it really damn tempting to shy away from Steve, to duck when Steve reaches out to grab his arm, or make sure he's across the room when normally he'd be right beside him. He's obvious enough in the first few days of their mission that Jones and Morita ask him, separately, if he and Steve are fighting. After that, he eases up, makes himself relax.

It's easy, really damn easy, to settle back into their friendship, their partnership. But it's also too easy to be too aware of Steve's hand on his back, of his laugh as they share a joke, of his scent in the early morning, warm and mellow from sleep.

***

Tonight, they're in the field, on their way back from a successful mission. They haven't seen anyone all day, it's safe to have a fire. Dernier is cooking with Jones’ help. Dugan, Monty and Morita are playing cards. Bucky sits on a little rise above the hollow where they made camp-- keeping lookout, though he's not officially on watch yet. Steve’s messing around with a notebook and pencil-- probably started out as a report, but he's relaxed enough now that it's probably a sketch of something. Bucky smiles fondly.

When the food’s ready, Steve brings two plates up to where he's sitting. He wants to stiffen and shy away, but he forces himself to stay calm, to smile, to remain relaxed even when Steve leans against him, shoulder to shoulder as they eat their food. The boys are chatting, and everything's calm when Steve says quietly, “Meet me in that stand of trees tonight, after your watch.”

Bucky looks at him, then turns back to his food. “Nah. Not a good idea, Captain.”

Beside him he feels Steve stiffen. “‘S not an order, Buck,” he says, and his voice is hurt.

Bucky looks out into the darkening twilight, past the rest of them. “‘S not a good idea when we’re here with five other guys, all of whom are battle-ready. You moan at the wrong time,” he smiles a little, “you're gonna have a bullet in the ass.”

Bucky thinks about it. “Probably Jones, he has a hair trigger no matter how much I talk to him about it.”

Steve relaxes a little, nods. “All right. Just…”

Bucky looks at him out the corner of his eye. “Feeling a little wound up, pal? Taking out a whole Hydra base with that fucking shield not enough for you?”

“I used my gun,” says Steve, knowing exactly where this is going.

“Not e-fucking-nough, asshole.” Bucky growls. “We get back to camp I'm drilling you. All of you,” he says, raising his voice a little.

At the groans, he says, “Maybe not Monty. He knows what the fuck he's doing with a gun.”

Monty stand up, takes a bow. “At your service, gentlemen.”

Monty takes his seat again to guffaws and good-natured ribbing. Bucky’s watching then, takes another bite. He can tell Steve is looking at him again. “What?”

Steve says quietly, “You're just.” He waves a hand. “You're really good at this, Bucky.”

Bucky looks over at him, knows his smile is twisted up. “Let's just win this fucking war, Steve, so I don't have to be.”

 

* * *

 

Paris, France, September 30, 1944 

It's late September when they manage a leave. Paris is still warm, and Dernier, who seems to know everyone, finds them a place with friends of his before he heads out into the night. He's looking for his niece who's been working for the resistance-- hasn't had word of her in weeks and Bucky can tell he's about crazy with worry. When Steve wants to send Monty or Jones with him, though, Bucky steps in.

“He's already gone, Steve, and I spoke to him before he left,” Bucky says, holding onto Steve's wrist.

Steve flexes in his grip, and Bucky doesn't let go. “I'm worried, Buck, if he doesn't find her--”

Bucky looks at him, says quietly, “You still can't save everyone, Rogers. Frenchie needs to do this and he knows the city, the people, better than we do.” He sighs, lets go of Steve's arm. “Jones will raise too many eyebrows. So will Monty, honestly, and I think Frenchie’s niece is playing dangerous games.”

Steve's mouth is mulish and he says, “Then he needs someone to have his back even more.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I trust him, Steve. He knows we’ll help if he needs us, and the others, they need a break.”

Steve’s clearly torn, halfway to going after Dernier himself. Finally, he says. “All right.” Then, softer, “You better be right, Bucky.”

Bucky thinks Steve looks about twenty right then, looks like he did just before Sarah died, when he started realizing that she could. He doesn't know what he’ll do if any of them die before the end of the war; thanks God the wolf makes him nearly indestructible.

***

They find a bar-- the Parisiens seen happy enough to have a group of soldiers in the room, so long as they're not German. Gabe spends a lot of time dancing with the pretty girls, chatting with them easily. After a while, Bucky pulls him aside and hands him two rubbers. “You remember to fucking wear these, kid.”

Gabe looks affronted. “Sarge, jeez. I've got some of my own.”

Bucky just shakes his head. This kid. “You need another bayonet course and I'm going to have to listen to Steve go on and on and fucking on about it.” He stares him down, the way he rarely does with any of the Howlies these days, until Gabe drops his gaze. “Use them, or you are going to be taking every extra watch from now until the end of the war.”

“Yes, Sarge,” Gabe grumbles, and pockets the rubbers.

Bucky hooks an arm around his shoulders, tows him back to the bar. “ _Deux bières, s’il vous plait_ ,” he says to the barkeep.

Gabe grins at him. “Sarge, I think your accent is getting worse.”

Bucky laughs. “I’m doing ok,” he says, waving at the beers that appear in front of them. “Now drink up,” he says, “I got to find our sadsack Captain.”

Gabe points over his shoulder, to where Steve is sitting alone at a corner table. “I think he's worried about Frenchie.” Gabe looks at him again, says, “Do you think one of us should have gone with him?”

“No,” Bucky says and lays it out exactly like he had for Steve. “Look, it'll be fine. I trust him.”

“We should have his back,” grumbles Gabe, and Bucky’s wolf rumbles approvingly in the back of his mind.

“We do,” says Bucky. “We trust him to come to us for help if he needs it. He wanted to see for himself-- if we need to go after him tomorrow, we will.”

“All right, Sarge,” Gabe says. “I’ll be up early.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure you will, with one of these dames keeping you company.”

Gabe’s skin gets darker with his blush, and Bucky laughs. “Go have fun, kid.”

***

Bucky sets a beer down in front of Steve, who's definitely brooding. He looks up, says, “Hey, Buck,” and then goes back to drawing pictures on the table with spilt beer.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky shakes his head, looking him up and down. “You are the biggest dead battery I've ever seen.”

“Ha fucking ha.” Steve picks up the beer, taking a drink. Neither of them can get drunk, which is probably good given the givens. Although, Monty does seem to be keeping a watch on the others right now, had given Bucky the nod.

“No word from Agent Carter?” He asks, curious.

Steve looks up, a little surprised. “She's fine. Managing things in London, said she'll have something for us next week, most likely.”

Bucky wonders, sometimes, what Steve's thinking about Agent Margaret Carter. They don't talk about her much-- she's good in the field, but the SSR seems to keep her close in London or send her out solo. They've only gone on two missions with her. Bucky likes her well enough, but Steve's wrapped up too tight about this girl, the first one Bucky can remember in-- shit, in way too long.

He kicks Steve's foot, since the idiot’s gone back to drawing pictures with beer. “You want to get out of here?”

Steve looks up, a little surprised. But it's two days to the full moon and they have a door that locks. Bucky's not willing to give up on the opportunity, especially since they'll be the only ones home for a while.

Steve cocks his head, grins at Bucky. “So it's like that?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I don't know what you're talking about, buddy.” Knocks his boot against Steve's again, and drinks down the last of his beer.

“All right,” Steve says. He takes his time finishing his drink, and Bucky's a little tense, a little wound up by the time they tip their hats to the boys and leave.

***

For all his nonchalance at the bar, as soon as they get the door closed, Steve’s in his space, pushing him up against the wall and kissing him, deep and wet and messy. Bucky is _not_ complaining, though. It’s been way too long-- too many missions, too many moons. Too much fucking time, every god damned time.

“Fuck, Steve,” he says, pushing him back just a little bit. “Got a bed right over there,” he says, smiling. “Got all night, too.”

Steve watches him for a minute, close enough Bucky can count his eyelashes, see the little lines around his eyes. Then Steve steps back, says, “You’re right,” and begins tugging at his tie.

He makes a show of it, taking his time, and Bucky can’t not watch. Steve’s tanned hands tug and pull at the tie, slipping it from around his neck. He folds it up and places it on the small table in the corner, then start to work on the buttons of his dress uniform, first the jacket, then the shirt.

Bucky’s staring, knows he is, and he ends up tugging too hard on his own shirt, buttons popping off. Steve grins at him, that knowing curve of his mouth, and says, “You in a hurry, Buck?”

Bucky smiles then, the one he’s practiced in the mirror, the one that gets girls to drop their eyes and, later, their panties. “Guess so, Steve,” he drawls. He lets his eyes drop until he looks up at Steve through the lashes. “Guess I’m just in a hurry to spend time with you.”

Steve’s staring, licks his lips, and Bucky tracks his tongue as it disappears. Gives up teasing as a bad job and just about rips his undershirt getting it over his head before he’s on Steve, pressing him against the wall, licking a stripe up Steve’s throat, and then tugging his head down to kiss him.

When they come up for air, Steve’s grinning. “There’s a bed right over there, Buck.”

“Fuck that,” Bucky says, and goes down on his knees, looks up and catches Steve’s eyes. “Floor’s right here.”

He works at Steve’s belt, thick leather moving easily under his hands, then smoothly begins unbuttoning his trousers, the fine wool slipping easily over the buttons. He pulls open the placket, careful as he can, though his hands aren’t steady. Steve’s hard underneath, cock surging up, and he slips Steve’s drawers down, tucks them under his balls. Then he grips the base tight, looks up at Steve and winks, before he takes the head in his mouth.

He’s only done this a few times, and each time it’s like he’s learning again. He takes too much the first time and nearly chokes on it. Steve’s hands come down to rest on his head, run through his hair. Bucky tries again, goes slower this time, and he’s rewarded when Steve’s fingers tighten in his hair. Steve groans, and he figures he must be doing something right. He starts sucking, making it wet, making it messy. Steve moans again, before he lifts one of his hands away from Bucky’s head, stuffs it in his mouth.

Bucky works Steve as long as he can until, jaw aching, he draws back. He keeps working Steve’s cock with his hand, watches him falling apart. Steve’s leaning against the wall, left hand stuffed in his mouth, right hand cupping Bucky’s jaw, eyes half-closed. That blush he gets when he’s embarrassed or aroused goes all the way down his chest. Bucky leans in, licks at his belly and sucks a mark there, amazed, sometimes, that Steve lets him so close to such a vulnerable area. Bucky leans down again, takes the head of Steve’s cock in his mouth, and starts sucking again. Steve groans then, loud enough to vibrate through him, despite the fist in his mouth. He mutters, “Bucky,” and Bucky sucks harder, feels the fierce pride he gets whenever he manages to get Steve off this way.

Steve comes, choked off sounds behind his fist, hand tightening around Bucky’s jaw, so that when he pulls off, he can feel the bruises forming beneath the skin. He sits back on his heels again, lets his hands drop to his own fly, where he’s aching behind the buttons. Steve stares down at him, eyes wide, so he makes it a show, flicking each button open, then tugging down his own underwear, already wet.

“Fuck,” Steve breaths, and it’s a shocked, almost reverent sound.

Bucky smiles a little, runs his hand over his cock, and says, “You going to help me out, Steve?”

Steve blinks, reaches down and grips his left arm, tugs him up so fast they crash into one another. Bucky starts laughing, and little breathless, and Steve grins, then pushes him back the few steps until Bucky’s legs hit the bed.

“You trying to tell me something?” Bucky asks, grinning.

Steve shakes his head, “All you been doing since we got here was talking about beds, pal. Just trying to help you out.”

Bucky raises a brow, strokes his fist over his cock. “Well, maybe not _all_ I been doing.”

Steve stares, starts to walks closer, and nearly trips on his trousers, which are hanging down his legs. Bucky starts laughing, and Steve does too, looking down ruefully. Then he bends over and starts working on his bootlaces. He glances up and says, “You might want to do this too, pal.” He waggles his eyebrows, which makes Bucky laugh harder, until he has to sit on the bed. “You’re not going to want to stop once we get going again.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asks. “Well, then sir, yes sir.”

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in Europe, January 22, 1945 

It's cold as hell, sitting watch in the middle of the night, the crisp cold that means it’s below forty, and Bucky’s breath is a plume of white every time he exhales. He runs warmer than the others, thanks to the wolf, and he’s still having a tough time not shivering . He's perched on the highest ground he can find above the camp, on a big boulder that has rounded sides and is nearly flat on top. It's quiet, probably too cold for Jerry to bother wandering around this time of night.

Thirty minutes before his watch is over he hears the sounds of feet crunching in cold grass, sees a shape moving between the camp and his perch. Steve has next watch, and it looks like he’s decided not to sleep tonight. Bucky shakes his head at his idiotic best friend, leaving warm blankets early for a cold shift. When Steve gets closer and whistles, he decides to be be an asshole and whispers, “What's the password?”

Steve looks up at him and grins, says, “Go fuck yourself, Barnes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and reaches down, offers Steve a hand up onto his perch, though he hardly needs it.

“You got time, you know,” Bucky tells him, though he's sure Steve’s aware.

“Yep, I know,” Steve says, just like he expected.

They’re both standing, and they take a look around together, a slow 360, Bucky sniffing the air. It looks and smells exactly the same as the last 90 minutes since Bucky took up his post. He resumes his seat and Steve huddles next to him, wrapping the blanket he brought around them both. Steve’s like a furnace, and tucked in next to him, Bucky feels warm for the first time in a couple hours.

Steve leans into him, turns his face and tucks it into Bucky's throat, nose cold against warming skin. He kisses him there, just over his pulse point, works on sucking a mark.

It's too cold out here to do anything, too risky even if he wanted to, and Bucky knows that, knows he should put a stop to it. When Steve pulls away, rests his head on Bucky's shoulder, breath cool across the mark he left, he asks quietly, “What was that for?”

Steve murmurs, just as quiet, “Just wanted to.”

Bucky looks over at the huddled form next to him, says, “All right. I'll wake you in twenty.”

Steve nods, hair a whisper against the bruise and says, “Sounds good, Buck.”

 

* * *

 

USSR, October 1947

After the war, it had taken time for Zola to gain SHIELD’s trust, to be allowed anything resembling privacy. Daily, they would search his notebooks, his spare cell, his person. Constant indignities, but he bears them. He knows if he is patient, stoic, there is real benefit to be had. After all, the United States is the land of opportunity.

Now, there is brief detente between superpowers, and even the suspicious leadership of  SHIELD is too excited to let it slip past. The ridiculous Howard Stark has decided he’s going, and the redoubtable Agent Carter will allow a few scientists to accompany him. Heavily guarded, of course. Zola plays down his eagerness, pretends he does not care about this opportunity. The practice he has put into deceit has borne fruit, and he is one of several who will be allowed to travel past the so-called Iron Curtain.

Despite the guards, under the nose of the flashy Mr. Stark, Zola is lucky enough to meet with Dr. Solkolsky, with whom he has managed a limited correspondence on unobjectionable topics. He’s well aware SHIELD has touted this correspondence to the press as evidence of growing warmth with the Soviets, while checking both his incoming and outgoing letters. They are nothing if not paranoid, but they are hardly in a position to understand his codes. Again, his diligence has paid off and SHIELD are allowing him to meet with Solkolsky, at his laboratory, even!

After searching the lab’s facilities, Zola’s “security detail” is willing to allow them private time. Of course, the man missed the hidden door, and is now safely ensconced in a waiting room upstairs.

This hidden laboratory is in a sub-basement, with concrete floors and cinder block walls. It’s a large space, poorly lit by hanging lights, divided into smaller areas by the placement of furniture and equipment, rather than through the placement of walls. In late October it is already cold, and Zola wishes he could have kept his heavy coat, but he ignores it. There are too many opportunities here to advance his theories, no matter how cold the air is.

In one corner of the room, in a small open space, there are three men all wearing dark uniforms, keeping  their rifles trained on an unknown object. They look out of place, compared to the lab personnel, scurrying here and there wearing white lab coats. Zola feels eager, as Solkolsky leads him in their direction, and when they come around the corner, Zola is face-to-face with a man who has haunted his dreams.

The sergeant is naked and thin to the point of emaciation, hair matted, skin slack. But at the sight of Zola he growls, teeth snapping. All pretense of humanity is gone. While he is well-secured with manacles and thick chains, the guards keep their weapons trained. The sergeant stands so as to block sight of it, but Zola can tell his left arm is… wrong.

“Doctor,” Zola says, turning to face Solkolsky, “what has happened to the arm?”

Solkolsky looks frustrated. “When the prisoner was brought in, his arm was crushed.” The doctor gestures to where the sergeant continues to growl and struggle. “As you can see, he is quite feral and, even while in his human state, very strong. We have made several attempts to set the arm, to no avail.”

Zola turns, excited. “Does that mean you have seen the transformation?”

“Yes, Herr Doktor, several times. It is,” Solkolsky curls his lip, “very violent.”

Zola turns back to observe the Sergeant, wondering what the trigger is-- he would very much like to see the shift for himself. He cocks his head, watching, and says, “I hope you have made a recording as I requested,”

“Yes, we have managed it, though he killed our best cameraman.”

Solkolsky looks at the prisoner with loathing and Zola finds this expression of emotion distasteful. Such a wonderful opportunity the man has. Who knows when they might find another? Chances such as this must be seized wholeheartedly.

Solkolsky turns to Zola, staying well out of reach of the prisoner. “But the arm, Doctor Zola, is why we requested your assistance. We think it must be removed and we know you have experience with this one.” He gestures at the prisoner, who seems to take it as a threat, growling in the back of his throat. The guards to move closer. “Can you help with attachment of a prosthetic?”

Zola smiles. He takes in the filthy, vicious creature before him, thinking of the many ways Hydra could use a beast such as this. Then he looks up at Solkolsky. “Oh yes, I have several ideas. Let us look at what you have developed so far.”

As they turn away, the sergeant lunges to the ends of his chains, faster than human sight. He is immediately clubbed to the ground by two of the guards, rifle stocks echoing as they beat the against flesh. The third is pointing his gun at the prisoner’s head, finger hovering over the trigger.

Zola looks back, and when they finish watches him huddle on the floor. “Don’t worry, Sergeant Barnes. I believe I shall see you again soon.”

 

* * *

 

California, May 12, 1968 

He wakes slowly. There is a sense that the slowness brings danger; he has no memory of waking fast. He breathes in to begin the assessment, scents

Men

Metal

Leather

Fire

Water on concrete

Ozone

Burning flesh

He flexes, feels straps across forehead, throat, chest, hips, thighs, shins, bicep, wrist. Metal against his back, cold.

With flexing is a shout, and the fire-ozone smell ceases for a minute. Experience tells him there technicians are conducting maintenance on his left arm. He blinks eyes open-- there is a ceiling, lights too bright, can’t turn his head.

A voice, muted and far away, that snarls. He listens, but, amidst the noise, the only voice that sharpens to words just says, “Soldier. Still.”

He listens, stills, continues assessment.

Right arm-- pinprick pain when he flexes. IV, hydration, perhaps drugs. The feel of his body still a haze, never clearing. Snarl, half-heard.

The fire-ozone smell resumes. Clicks-- heels across a floor. Shift of cloth on cloth, flesh on metal. Men and guns. He remains still.

***

He wakes again, sitting upright, straps against forehead, chest, bicep, wrist, ankles. He breathes deep but the scent of leather-piss-old fear-ozone is missing. He remains wary, but lets the muscles relax minutely. He is wet, but not naked. Leather pants from hip to ankle. Shirt damp.

The handler stands in front, commands attention. Shows photos, states the mission. Assassination, long range, two-man team with him, two more on-site. He sniffs. The handler does not smell familiar. Light brown hair, jowls, dark eyes. He scents again-- the men here are not familiar, none of them.

“Soldier, your mission?” barks the handler.

He repeats it back, word for word.

He hears: cloth on flesh; cloth on cloth; boots on concrete; voice, low, whisper not meant to be heard, “Jesus, that’s creepy.” Sounds of shifting metal-flesh-cloth. Men with guns. Scents fear.

The snarl rises up.

“Soldier!”

It subsides.

The chair moves, tilts back, and he grips the leather and metal arms, clenches teeth. But there is no metal resting against his temples. He breathes out.

The tube down his throat--he doesn’t fight. For a minute, he scents meat, then the rising scent of what travels through tube to stomach.

***

He is dressed--leather coat, black, tight over shirt. Metal arm left free. He rotates it, feels the movement, seconds after the command leaves his brain. Thinks, liability. He cannot fight well enough if the arm does not work properly. Remembers the handler-- the mission is long range assassination; full function not necessary. On his feet, boots. Hair, shorn close to his head.

He is marched towards a vehicle, driver in front, a man on either side of him. Two-man team.

They emerge from underground, drive for 56 minutes. Dusk fades to dark and he is aware of an itch under his skin, under burn of metal that is his left arm. The snarl is louder.

They arrive at a building-- dark, no guard that he can scent, but scents of people. Building used during the day, empty now. Driver leaves and they go upstairs. Dark no problem for sight. Dark, but growing brighter.

Walk up nine flights of stairs, eleven stairs each. Smells of industrial paint, metal. Fewer people. Door at the top-- thick, metal, locked. One of the two-man team picks the lock. He knows he could crush the knob, force the door open. In his head, the snarl is louder. Under his skin, the itch grows.

One of them-- identical black combat gear, dark eyes, brown hair, military short. One sets down the bag that he carried. One stinks of onions and meat from a meal. Other smells of mint chewing gum, faint cologne. Driver had smelt of cigarettes and Old Spice. But that. Doesn’t matter.

Haze of ambient light from other buildings. He assembles the rifle, sets up the stand. Two-man team is watching him, quiet. Neither offers to help, their hands hover over guns in side holsters.

He can feel a _pull_ in his chest. An ache. The fingers of his right hand _flex_. Something is coming.

It hits, a spasm, makes him clench his right hand. The left is... delayed. The arm feels on fire and he puts right arm to left shoulder.

The movement is too fast, sudden. Onion-smelling man has a gun out. Mint-gum is pulling a radio from his belt. The snarl _sings_ and there is something liquid in his veins. He feels a pull from the sky, and even with left arm not working, he is fast enough to grab the radio, crush it before there is a sound, leap at Mint-gum, and pull him in front, a shield, as onions shoots.

In his arms, Mint-gum becomes heavy, limp, and he drops the body. He rushes Onions, gets hit once, twice. The snarl in his head is a voice. It growls, “Not silver,” and then he is on him.

They grapple. The man is well-trained, a good fighter. He is shot, his metal arm no longer obeys, but the voice in his head doesn’t care. He knows blood, a fight, a _hunt_ and it doesn’t matter, nothing matters as the bones in his face are shifting, jaw lengthening, teeth sharpening. The other stinks of onions and fear now, trying to shout. He is on top, weight holding the other down, dragging the head back, throat exposed bright in the moonlight. He rakes teeth across it, biting down while blood spurts and bone crunches underneath his teeth. The blood is hot and salty. It makes his mouth water.

He bites for a while, tearing, while his body contorts, until the pain of his body constricted by clothing moves him off the carcass, to empty space, to open his mouth on soundless cries, because the snarl in his head says, ‘No,’ says, ‘Not safe,’ and he listens, listens.

He has no time sense for this, body gripped, mind slipping like drugs are invading it, snarl up and man down. They claw at the arm, body rejecting it, pushing it out, a fleshy hand ripping at a metal shoulder. When it’s finished, he is distantly aware that they are a new shape, three legs, a stunted fourth. They shake away the pain of the change and open their mouth to sing, but no song is safe.

They are hungry and there is meat, so they eat. It helps banish the last of weakness, though they are unbalanced on three paws not four. The snarl in his head is in charge, but the man surfaces to say, ‘others will come.’ The snarl knows they can kill, will kill, but the man tells it, ‘safer to leave.’ The snarl allows it.

They travel back down, 99 stairs taken fast and soundless, outside to the street. They lose themselves in alleyways and avenues, under smells of human and metal and machine. There is the smell of pine and that is the way they head, fast and silent as three legs can carry them, as night fades toward dawn.

 

Werewolf Bucky tearing out his metal arm by [winterstudmuffinbarnes](http://winterstudmuffinbarnes.tumblr.com)


End file.
